heromuxfandomcom-20200216-history
2013.07.08 - Lessons in Particle Physics
Magneto's 'temporary' home in Hammer Bay has become something of a mansion, compared to the rapidly increasing density of the squalor around the city. Several stories tall, it simply rose up out of the ground one day- a formidable structure of steel and stone, built in mere moments by the will of the Master of Magnetism. In his private office, sitting several stories above the cityscape below. Kwabena Odame, known by some as 'Shift', has been invited to the office a few minutes prior. The lord of Bastion stands with his back to the phase-shifting mutant, pouring a pair of glasses of fine scotch. "Tell me, Kwabena," Erik says, fixing the drinks with his own hands. "How much do you know about particle physics? Nothing fancy- just the fundamentals of how atomic particles interact." Self-taught, Kwabena's unique form of education had its advantages. He learned what he wanted, not what was decided, and particle physics had been something he had, in fact, studied during his many hours hiding in the libraries of the country. "It is de nature of particles, as constituents of what is usually referred to as mattah and radiation," he explains. "We now undahstand dat particles are excitations of quantum fields and interact following their dynamics." He turns away from Magneto for a moment, studying the layout of such an office with his eyes only. "It is de study of de most fundamental elements of de unahverse," he offers. "It goes beyond mere partahcles, of course, so dat we can undahstand why dey do what dey do." It's not quite a textbook answer, though there are pieces that may as well have been ripped from a book. Wanting to touch and feel the walls around him, Kwabena holds an outstretched hand. First the fingers, then the hand itself, and soon enough the mutant's arm, begins to disassemble into a black, gaseous smoke, which stretches out and begins to 'touch' the wall. "I undahstand now dat my body is breaking down from it's usual state of solids and liquids into dis gas," he offers. "I don't undahstand how it happens, but my X-Gene allows me to manipulate it with my mind. With my feelings." The smoke withdraws and knits itself back into a human hand again. "I undahstand dat de genetics are de medium, for what is called 'thought-to-matter manipulation'." "Precisely and aptly spoken," Magneto congratulates Kwabena. He turns to the young man, walking past his seat to deposit a glass of very expensive scotch next to the chair. "More specifically, you- by dint of some psychokinetic gift- are controlling the way the very molecular structure of your body bonds to itself. Much as ice turns into a liquid given heat, you are turning into a gas, given your 'will' to do so." Magneto swirls his scotch in the glass, watching the tiny steel frozen cubes rattle against one another, in lieu of ice cubes. "Sublimation is slightly more rare a process than say, melting or freezing. The fact you can do it at will- with no corresponding endothermic or exothermic reaction- speaks of a profound defiance of the laws of physics as we know it." He turns those icy blue eyes onto Kwabena. "You grasp what I am saying, yes? The energy you are using- the energy you are constraining- is enormous. The scale of it, unchecked, could be devsastating on a level few can concieve of. This is the first and foremost danger you must be aware of, my friend," Magneto says, sliding into the seat across from Kwabena. "What you do casually could, unchecked, level a city block." When congratulated, there is only a touch of a smile. Kwabena is a far cry from the young addict Erik had first encountered at Liberty Island such a short time ago. He's been molded by very different types of people, and most importantly, he's learned a great deal about his abilities. Taking his seat, the African for the moment allows his scotch to go untouched. "Sublimation, yes," he answers, recollecting something he'd learned a time ago. "De process of going from solid state to gaseous state, bypassing de natural step of liquid." He fails to note that he can, in fact, do the liquid state as well, but such demonstrations have a tendency to be messy, and frankly, he didn't find it enjoyable. Picking one's pieces out of clothing isn't exactly fun. Kwabena, however, doesn't possess the kind of appreciation that men like Magneto, for example, have of the science. He's still a young man, barely halfway to thirty, and he's never slaved under the heavy weight of tuition to earn what many with such wisdom have spent time and money to achieve. So, he's struck a bit by the enormity that Magneto is placing upon it all. Drawing forward, he folds his hands and seems duly surprised by what the older man is saying. It draws a frown to his face, for he'd just witnessed such a spectacle at the hands of a younger mutant, whose thermo-acceleration power did, in fact, level more than a city block. Eyes twitch at the thought, and he finally does, in fact, reach for the glass of scotch. Magneto gestures at a wall, where numbers- bold and dark in relief to the stainless steel- manifest on the metal. "Consider the math," he says, the numbers dancing along. "Sixty five kilograms of water. Fifteen kilograms of carbon and assorted minerals. Sublimated instantly into a gaseous state," he says, gesturing in the manner of a teacher. The numbers start crunching, stacking up with exponents and large integers. "Consider how much energy it takes to convert water to water vapor- steam, is the most common comparison," Magneto hastens to add. "If we process the numbers. This is the energy level, in joules, that is required to generate that phase shift." "Consider now, that you can do this /at will/," Magneto says, waving once at the improvised whiteboard. "And from gas directly to solid, as you like. Your body is mostly solid and liquid, with precious little room for a gaseous state, yet you stay ordered until impacted. The scientific implications of your powers are astounding. I've been pondering it off and on for a few hours now, and I should think that you are channeling the sort of power that would make a military force nervous, and doing it entirely subconsciously, with no endothermic or exothermic reaction. Going from a gas to a solid for the mass that you consist of should flash-freeze a room; and yet," Magneto says, gesturing broadly with the glass, "here we sit. Comfortably warm." The Master of Magnetism flicks a small ball bearing at Kwabena, the projectile passing painlessly through his bare arm with a wisp of smoke and a sussurance of noise, nothing more. "You see? Nothing. And yet, were you to phase shift instantly, all at once, you would release over one hundred and sixty /million/ joules of energy. That's the equivalent of a small ocean liner slamming into a stationary object at a hundred milers per hour; or, if you like, over one hundred and sixty sticks of dynamite detonating simultaneously." He spreads his hands. "And yet, nothing. Nothing more than a whisper of noise." The African turns to study the makeshift blackboard, eyes dancing about at the figures that are drawn. Steadily they grow more and more impressed, the scotch once again seemingly forgotten as it rests against his knee. At one point, his lips part, for he's piecing together his own pieces of the puzzle. Professor Xavier had taught him how to control his mutation. This man was teaching him how it worked. There were pieces of the science that made sense to Kwabena, and others that yet still (for the time being) were well beyond his scope of knowledge. He doesn't even seem to notice when the tiniest part of his body changes to gas, permitting the small piece of metal to pass through him without harm. He looks up from his arm toward Magneto, and for a moment, he simply blinks owlishly. "Dere must be something within my genetic structure dat maintains dis energy," he postulates. "Dis is... something I do every day. It's become like blinking, Erik. And de oddah mattah states I can do, liquid, a hardened body, I would assume dey also exert some amounts of enahgy too." He looks at the glass of scotch in his hand, and finally lifts it to take a testing sip. Again, he blinks, for this was far more expensive a drink than he'd dare to purchase, even with the stacks of cash he'd hoarded during his time as a hired gun. "I have spent decades studying the X-gene, my friend," Magneto informs Kwabena tiredly. "Even my own gift baffles me, at times. I can see the ebb and flow of the universe /itself/. I can sense your heartbeat from the most minute pulsings of electrical energy flowing through your veins. I can do this as naturally as breathing, and yet, I do not know /how/ or /why/. The X-gene, I suspect, is not so much a 'why' as a 'means'," he says. "Which I am sure is no comfort. All I understand is that you and I are bound up to the fundamental forces of the universe in a way that 'makes sense' to us on a profoundly instinctual level. And there are other mutants- mutants with such tiny gifts that they are as dandelions before a hurricane- who can accomplish feats of scientific wonder that make even my own powers seem vast. Yet they are employed so... fruitlessly. Imagine, healing a wound," he says, suddenly diverting the course of conversation. "To heal seems such a minor thing, but- consider the work involved. The energy. For your body to 'heal' a gunshot wound in a matter of minutes is a miracle, requiring thousands of calories of energy. And yet, the mutant rises with nothing more than perhaps the mild appetite of the recently ill. It boggles the mind. If, someday," he clarifies, "I find a method to this madness, I shall share it with you. For now, I am confronted with the same dilemma as many physicists- Einstein and Newton are both correct, but they cannot be both correct at once. The X-gene does nothing, but it lets us do anything." His smile is briefly troubled, then warms, turning to Kwabena. "My friend, I propose an experiment," he says, setting his scotch aside. "I have clarified how much energy you manipulate on a daily basis. Instantly, effortlessly, and without any sort of exo or endothermic reaction. I believe there are higher and lower orders of matter you can achieve, far, far beyond what you can do now. I think that your former instructors were so focused on the morality of their gifts they spent precious little time exploring the practicality thereof. For your first effort, I will aid you- very gently," he hastens to add. "I want you to consider... density. You think you are solid now? Make yourself /moreso/," he urges. He floats a steel ball bearing into the air, and with a crushing motion from his fist, it begins to shrink. Perspiration dots his brow. "It is... possible... to achieve a state of matter beyond merely solid. This is... a supersolid." He gasps, finally, and drops the bearing. Once the size of a small rock, it is now barely the size of a pea. The dent it leaves in the floor is impressive. "Think of density, my friend. Let us see how dense you can make yourself...." This, now, is a concept Kwabena is at least somewhat familiar with, and a technique he has employed before. However, he knew it to be dangerous. His mastery of such hardened states was far from mastery indeed--mastered enough to harden his flesh to a point where can still maintain his self control, but only for a period. And so, with another sip of his scotch--one never consumes it all at once, as one might cheap whiskey--he sets the glass down and takes a steadying breath. A crackling sound begins to fill the room as his skin and flesh begin to harden, but the look on his face is telling. It's anger. Whatever it is that he's thinking of, it brings a mad look to him, in his eyes, in the way his jawline changes, in the way his fists clench. The most telling, however, is how his skin begins to actually crackle, taking upon a form that is more like rock than epidermis. Beads of sweat begin to form on his brow in similar fashion. "It is difficult to maintain," he says, through clenched teeth and a voice that sounds somewhat altered, as if he were growling without the grit that comes from a forced larynx. "If... I push too hard," he struggles, "I can... lose control." Nevertheless, he is in a place of safety. Were he to go into a rage, he's quite certain Magneto could maintain him somehow. And so, he pushes harder, and as he does, his body begins to shrink. As he becomes smaller, the chair he is in begins to buckle with the weight, its legs bending and threatening to shatter. Soon enough, it does just that, and though he falls onto the floor, he maintains his control. He's not injured, but the floor itself is cracked beneath him. Closing his eyes, the African struggles to maintain control, but with every heave of his chest, the crackling sound becomes louder, mimicking the movements of his body as air is sucked in and out with the growing pace of a man who is on the verge of losing control. There's an abrupt and almost gentle pressure around Kwbena- as if an adult's hands were controlling the clumsy swings of a child at bat. "Gently, now," Magneto murmurs, holding one hand extended towards Kwabena. His eyes are lidded, face turned half away. "Remember what you are. You are holding on to a piece of your humanity yet," he informs the man who is rapidly turning into something like adamant. "Breath, blood, air... these are human affectations, human needs. You are no longer merely 'human like'," he reminds Kwabena. "When you are a whisper of smoke, do you hunger? When you flow through the water, does your blood boil?" Magneto steps closer and leans forward, then peers with those large blue eyes into Kwabena's rage-filled gaze, commanding his attention with a mere look. "Do you think that is air you still need to breath?" Attention is finally grappled, and Kwabena looks into Magneto's eyes with a vicious glare. How dare he suggest... A flash of memory breaks through the rage, reminding Kwabena of his first encounter with a weapon of energy. So powerful was it that it had ripped through his gaseous state, disassembling his molecules so far from each other that he'd nearly ceased to exist. It was only with the help of a telepath that he'd managed to reassemble, otherwise, he'd have been lost in the air forever. He'd lasted days in that state, and never hungered. Finding the will not to breathe, Kwabena at first holds his breath. He's tempted, after a few long and beleaguered moments, to burst forth with his lungs and capture the much needed air again. However, he knows that it's possible, that he doesn't need it to survive in such a state. Closing his eyes, a tear of blood seeps from one corner, only to stop halfway down his dark-skinned and crackling face, the blood itself turning into something akin to a ruby in color. He focuses his rage into a war against his body's desire to breathe. Suddenly, he shrinks further still, his body curling up on itself. The clothing he wears now seem baggy as his shrunken body sinks further still into the floor, causing it to buckle and sink, with all of the pops and hisses that go with it. Limbs curl up against each other until he is almost ball-like in shape, contorted as such that he's lost more than half of his size... and gained far more than that in density. The magnetic fields surrounding him are intensified in turn, as such an unnatural state tempts to play havoc with his surroundings. It starts with his clothing, which begins to fold in on itself, as if drawn to his nearly supersolid skin by some form of intensely localized gravity. "Kwabena. Enough. Enough!" Magneto makes a gesture akin to Moses parting the Red Sea, interceding his spectacular will between Kwabena and the mutant's own powers. Though the Master of Magnetism is not cruel, there's something painful in the absolute interruption of Kwabena's powers- and Magneto rips Kwabena's control away from him at the most fundamental of levels, reversing the man's slow descent into hyperdensity. There are a long few moments as Magneto struggles with Kwabena for control of his powers, guiding him slowly back to a level of matter density that is more normalized. When it ends, Magneto is puffing and breathing heavily, and Kwabena is... well. Certainly in no happy state. "I apologize for doing that," Magneto says, recovering far more rapidly than one would expect one of his exertion to accomplish. "I despise controlling the powers of another Homo Novus. But your sectional density was fast approaching the Scwharzchild radius- an object of infinite density and limited mass. You were, in short, becoming a microsingularity," Magneto explains, plucking his floating scotch glass out of the air and taking a sip. "It is a process you would not survive," he clarifies. "As your density became infinite, it would be impossible to reverse the process by your own will. And I do not care to wrangle a black hole today," he says with a wry grimace. Sound waves register, but Kwabena has already sunken into a state of meditative rage. The anger is self-sustaining, and it takes the wrestling of his own molecules to bring him back. Matter is reorganized, a body reforms, and when Kwabena finally gasps for air, it is with cold skin and a clammy expression, visible even within the dark tones of his Ghanaian heritage. Hands still balled into fists, the young man has had enough training in self control to withstand the uncontrollable rage that is soon to follow. The apology helps. He couldn't dare blame another person for trying to show him something new, but the mentality of his focused anger is dangerous in how it causes him to not think rationally. A vile few words are spoken in Dangme, his own native dialect, in an effort to verbally assault the air itself rather than let loose with the pent up anger that comes to him. Rising from the wreckage beneath, Kwabena reaches out and snatches the remaining scotch from where it sits. "And I apologize for this," he seethes, and downs the rest of the expensive scotch in one gulp. The biting flavor and burning heat give him something else to think about, and as it spreads a numbness into his belly, the liquor brings him back. It's not the most elegant way, but... it's better than the alternative. "Dat would not look so good on de evening news," he agrees, mimicking Magneto's wry wit with a sour tone of his own. Turning, Kwabena studies the shattered remains of the chair he once sat in, and the dent he managed to make in the floor. "It's nevah been dat strong before," he breathes. "I didn't see a line. Once I let go, I couldn't see my bordah's any longah." "Your problem is, I suspect, more emotional than physical, as unlikely as that might seem," Magneto reflects, not at all perturbed by Kwabena's seething rage. "Many Novus face the same burden. Some feel prayer is the source of their powers," he says, rolling his eyes skywards. "Others think it is the power of demons or saints, or joy or some manifest destiny." He shakes his head. "It is science, my friend, simple science. Perhaps adrenaline and testosterone help trigger the metamorphosis. Perhaps you simply think they need to." He contemplates Kwabena, jutting his chin in thought. "It is entirely possible the nanites in your blood are contributing to this. They would act as an inhibiting agent for your higher-order gifts. You have just achieved a density approaching that of a small black hole. The opposite end of the spectrum is to create that energy endothermically- to produce high-energy plasma states," Magneto explains. "You may need to find an entirely new emotional state for that. You are not focusing on density, or structure. You will achieve a transcendent state of matter- becoming a plasma, a step shy of becoming pure energy." Magneto eyes Kwabena doubtfully. "I am... somewhat less sure of the end result of this state. If you shed excess energy in your plasmic state, you will not be able to regain it when you return to a solid form. You may return missing a finger, or part of your liver. You might not be able to maintain magnetic coherence at all, and fly apart. Or dissolve into pure energy. Or, you may achieve a new state of existence as raw plasmic matter," Erik says, matter-of-factly. "...It should prove interesting, regardless." "Emotions triggah it," Kwabena agrees. "Professah Xaviah found dat dere are physiological changes taking place during such states, which are contributing to de changes. But, de more I work with it, de less it..." Beat. "I meditate a lot." Which would explain many things. A clearer state of mind can lead to an ability to affect the body without relying on such intense emotional states. Kwabena settles into a different chair, going silent as he listens to everything Magneto is saying. A thoughtful frowm takes him, but there is another subject on his mind. "Dis mattah of de nanites, it is not that easy," he admits. "Dey inject a substance into my bloodstream similah to de opiates I used to be addicted to, only synthetic, and far more powahful. My body has developed a dependency on dem. If they are to go away..." He shakes his head. "I am told it would kill me. I have not gambled with dat threat. De withdrawal from heroin is bad enough, I'm sure you know at least by study. I can't imagine what it would be like to suffah dat, if Doom's promise is true." It's a side topic, but one worth mentioning, especially if they plan to do something that might bring harm to the microscopic machines. "Quite like our dear Victor to make such an assurance," Magneto sneers. "To cure you of one addiction by granting you another. I'm quite certain that any standard procedure would be utterly lethal, as Doom is not the sort to let a hook out of a fish, once it's landed." Magneto swirls his drink in his glass. "But, on the other hand... could he predict that you would 'burn' them out of your body? Oh, I'm certain they'd release vast amounts of heroin into your bloodstream, were their numbers reduced by surgical means. But for them to burn out, all at once... well. He's a genius, but I hardly think he could have expected the world's leading authority in high energy physics to tell you how to phase-shift into living plasma." You last paged Domino. It would seem that neither of these two have any love for Victor Von Doom. Where Magneto sneers, Kwabena holds a wry sort of smirk himself. "I doubt he could have predicted that," he admits, though there's an insinuation that suggests Kwabena has already had his own sort of revenge. He'd managed to play Doom against himself during the infiltration attempt, after all. That's saying something. "Assuming I'm able to do dis," says Kwabena, with a genial hand gesture to boot. "And assuming I'm able to, as you said, stay in one piece aftahward. I'd be most worried about de withdrawal effects. I mean, it's a science in and of itself, and dose who have run tests on my blood can support Doom's claims. I'll need a physician of equal calibre to help me survive." "No, what you /need/ is heroin," Magneto says in a matter of fact tone. "You've developed a profound addiction to opiates. Something easily procured, if my spymistress is any expert on the matter. She is," he asides, to dispel any doubt on Kwabena's part. "I'm quite sure Doom's nanites are simply a mechanical synthesis for the chemical opiates you're accustomed to injecting. Substantially higher grade, too, with none of the more deleterious side effects of pure heroin on the system," Magneto explains. "But, I imagine that in... oh..." his expression grows thoughtful. "I would expect in the next few months, you would start to experience withdrawal symptoms again as they draw down the dose, and he would call you in to 'fix' the problem." Magneto looks at Kwa, then shrugs. "It's what I would do," he says with chilling practicality. When Magneto specifically claims that the answer to such an impending withdrawal is to actually partake of the drug he's worked so hard to give up, Kwabena frowns. "It's," he starts to say, but finds himself unable to defend himself in the face of such argument. There is a slow nod of his head at Magneto's supposition. "It's exactly' what he plans to do," he agrees. "Howevah, he claims dat de normal narcotic will not do de trick. Unless he is lying, use of de street drug, no mattah how pure it is made, will only do me more harm. It will not serve as a fix." He shakes his head and turns away, not out of disrespect for Magneto, but out of disrespect for himself. To even entertain the thought of shooting up again is something the African considers as failure. Ultimate failure. "Believe me," he says, after a few moments of silence, and turns back to face the taller man. "I would want to discovah de lengths of my abilities. Dis plasma state you refer to. It would accomplish many things, it would even make me less susceptible to any attempts my enemies might make to harm me." He shakes his head. "But unless Doom has woven a most impressive bluff, toying with such things might be my ultimate undoing." "It's a simple matter of behaviour analysis," Magneto says, reclining in a seat and kicking one leg up over another. He sips his scotch with a pleasantly pleased expression. "Pattern analysis. What is /more/ likely? That Doom invented a chemical substitute for heroin that provides all of the chemical dependencies you have but none of the secondary side effects, but is lethal when withdrawn?" He archs an eyebrow at Shift. "Or that he's supplying you with a high grade of synthetic heroin and simply lied?" Recalling his time spent in Latveria, Kwabena considers Magneto's argument for a moment. He recalls the many tricks utilized in his torture, culminating in the ultimate trickery--that he was convinced, through such torture, to murder a doppelganger of a woman he held dear, simply to get more of the drug Doom had introduced to his system. There was also a reason for Shift to trust Magneto. There were many reasons, not the least of which was that he showed an interest in Kwabena, when Kwabena was little more to society than another junkie roaming the streets. "Plasma is superheated, ionized gas," he offers. "How would I attain such a state?" he asks. "I'm going to set you on fire," Magneto says, rather calmly. He sets his scotch aside and interlaces his fingers. "I wll bombard you with gamma radiation. Wonderful stuff, gamma radiation. Fantastic, unpredictable stuff. You, my friend, will endeavour to maintain a personal magnetic field- much the same way you maintain your form in a gaseous state, you will maintain your form in a plasmic one. You will focus on magnetic containment. I will show you how to do it, of course, so you will not be without reference. If your concentration falters- even for a moment," Magneto says, earnestly, "you will fly apart at the seams." At first, Kwabena maintains the idea, illusion perhaps, that Magneto is joking. He even begins to smirk a little. A number of witty retorts come to mind, not the least of which involve something about 'setting her on fire the other night', or what have you. However, soon enough, he begins to grow distinctly aware that Magneto is ''not joking. "Wait a moment," he starts, and takes a single step toward Magneto, stretching out an arm with hand outstretched toward the man. "I don't know a thing about magnetic fields," he protests. "Pahrhaps I am doing something with dem when I change to gas, but I promise you, it is instinctual." Kwabena's protests are, of course, nonsense. What he does instinctively could certainly be applied to a plasmatic state. He's simply nervous, and not over what might happen if he is able to maintain himself and not fly apart at the seams. What he fears is the aftermath of having those nanites burned out. He fears the unknown, and he fears himself. "Well then. This should be a learning experience for both of us." Magneto holds a hand out towards Kwabena, palm out and his pinkie and ring finger curled tight. He exhales once, and the very air shimmers between the Master of Magnetism- perhaps, more aptly, the Master of Energy- as a tightly coalescing beam of gamma radiation blasts into Kwabena, full force. Metal bends and shrieks in protest as he weaves a tight containment field around the young mutant, the side effect of the lensing warping the room itself. "Remember, Kwabena Odame," he says, his voice strained but calm. "Remember to focus. Hear my song. This is the harmony of the universe itself," he murmurs. "This is the music of creation. Listen with your heart and your soul, and it will carry you along with it." There is indeed music, though of a kind no human ear can hear. It's tied up in the heartbeat of the universe- the scattered frequency of the last remnants of the Big Bang, the sharp hum of lights flickering in an office. It's the note of a tuning fork stuck against ones teeth, and it's all intended to give Kwabena a solid and /tangible/ sensation of what a magnetic containment field should feel like. For the Ghanian mutant, all it sounds like- all it is- is music. Typically, when Kwabena's body encounters such a dangerous form of energy, his body will instinctively change to its gaseous state. In such a form, said energy has, in fact, caused that gas to turn to plasma. However, in the past, his lack of control has caused those parts of him to, literally, come apart at the seams. There was the bank robbery in New York, and the energy field he'd thrown himself into. It had scattered his molecules so far apart, the others were convinced he'd simply disintegrated. There was the Sentinel, whose blast tore him into pieces. The part of him that had encountered the deadly blast of energy had been blown across the room, only to instinctively re-materialize as half his body, dismembered. In short, he'd survived worse, in a manner of speaking. A look of terrible fear flashes through his mismatched eyes before his body changes. The clothing he wore bursts into radiant fire, quickly disintegrating into the air itself, leaving behind a cloud of gas that begins to glow and shimmer in bright purples, radiant blues, and violent tones of red. A silent scream joins the void, the scream of a man's soul in terrible torment. However, that scream fades in the overwhelming encompassing of the song that is blasted through his being. With all of the fears he's encountered in the past--the unknowing of disassociation--the desperate grasp for his dismembered body parts--he forgets them in the impending wave of instinct. Be it his soul, his life energy, or nothing more than the complex scientific reality of his genetic existence, he grabs hold of that sound and clings to it with every ounce of his being. Colors brighten as the heat intensifies, turning from orange to yellow, and finally, consumed by brilliant tendrils of white. It's almost as if a miniature star had formed in the centre of that office, and though its spindly fires of destruction desire to reach out and consume everything in their paths, they, instead, curl upon each other and cling to themselves, like a living being made of energy trying to hold itself together. "How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn!" Magneto murmurs, approvingly, as the Ghanian reaches that new state of existence. He extends his other hand and manipulates his fingers as if a harpist at his instrument, deftly plucking at the strings of the universe as if they were his personal plaything. The star burns with a heat that doesn't melt the world around it, as Magneto catches stray bolts of plasma that slip past Kwabena's control. "You must maintain that field, my friend," Erik says firmly. "If you let too much plasma slip past, you may return to solid form missing a finger. Or a kidney. Much as if someone came along with a mason jar and... sealed away a bit of your gaseous self." Honestly now, a finger, he could deal with. A kidney? Hell no. Magneto's voice carries upon the plane that intersects vibrations of the air with the plasma state Kwabena finds himself in. He can feel, even sense those parts of him that have slipped past, only to be bounced back upon him. He has no control over the magnetic forces outside of his body. However, he comes to realize, just as he maintains his gaseous state, such it is with this excited state. It's just a hell of a lot more difficult. With each strand of himself that slips free, Kwabena bends his will that much further against its escape. His genetic material itself is designed to hold the particles of his changed body together. It bends the magnetic forces against their natural course. His strength of will somehow manipulates those molecules, so much that not only does he begin to hold himself together, his will actually vibrates the air around him with a song of his own. "I can maintain it from within." The voice is not that of a human man, but rather, it comes from the way his plasma state vibrates the air intersecting it. It is entirely otherworldly in nature, and beyond that, as those vibrations pass through the containment field that Magneto holds around him, the sound further changes until it, too, comes in the form of an otherworldly song, with neither gender nor tone, and yet beautiful all the same. Gently- so gently, and carefully- Mangneto lets go of Shift, holding his hands out in readiness should the Ghanian slip again. "Good. Very good," he congratulates the mutant. "Be careful. An errant thought, a moment of distraction- you could level a small building." He pauses. "You'd probably die the moment you shift back into a solid form, if you lose too much matter. Not all at once. Mild internal bleeding, perhaps. Anemia. I'm not sure how much mass you could lose. But I sohuld think that too much, all at once, and you'd simply... collapse." Magneto considers the moment, then wanders towards the mantlepiece. He hoists a piece of wood, considering it, then lobs it underhand at Kwabena. It incinerates instantly on contact with him. "Though it raises an interestin theoretical point about replenishing your atomic structure. You are mostly oxygen and hydrogen and carbon, after all. If you were wounded badly enough, you might find the plasmic state sufficient to repair your injuries." Instinct, for a mutant, is like a baby taking his first breath. As soon as a foreign object becomes a part of him, Kwabena grabs hold of it and absorbs it into his being. The molecules are foreign, and a hatred of them takes hold, forcing them to become a part of him. To assimilate. This, of course, gives him more of an awareness of what is his, what is not, and what should be. An errand part of him slips free, splashing up to the ceiling, ripping through it, and shooting off into the sky. Feeling a part of him missing angers him such that he desperately grips hold of what is left. The curling strands of energy begin to take the form of a human man... a man with two legs, a torso, one arm, even a head. The other arm, however, is gone. There is the subtlest of motions, the turning of a head in the direction of that missing arm. Then, a sound that much resembles a derisive hiss fills the air. The other arm lashes forth, and a strand of plasma bursts out, striking the remainder of the wood that lies piled upon the mantlepiece. Similarly, that wood is incinerated, its matter becoming a part of Shift, however that lance of energy is cast back into his body, becoming the missing arm. Left behind are the scalded remains of the mantlepiece, intact, but having turned to something resembled blackened glass in the wake of Kwabena's destructive power. "Ah." Magneto's lips curl into a smile. He walks back towards his seat and settles into it again, reaching for his half-finished scotch. "Another side effect I'd rather hoped to see. Plasma is, as you know, the hottest form of matter. It's not ionized energy or radiation particles- raw, unchecked thermal energy. Incredibly difficult to defend against, believe it or not," he adds, sipping the very excellent booze. "There are many mutants who can handle energy, and many who can handle radiation, but to throw the concentrated heat of the sun itself at someone is... well." He grins in a self-congratulatory fashion. "As I said, I guessed it to be a side effect. A word of care, again," he adds, waving a finger at Shift. "Too much plasma can be as lethal as losing containment. Abosrbing too much of the wrong element would prove equally lethal. You would have little use for Molybdenum, for instance," he says wryly. The floor beneath Kwabena glows red hot, but his plasma feet do not touch the ground. Instead, the man-shaped collection of ionized gas floats in the air, considering itself for a few moments, and absorbing the words that float across those sound waves toward him. Such thoughts cause him to lose his focus. He can feel himself beginning to lose form. The shape of a man devolves into that of a cloud once more, and fearing total disassociation, he bends his will to release himself and reform as a man. The excess energy is absorbed by the process, and following a sudden sound of air being displaced, the white-hot tendrils turn to red, then take the shape of flesh and blood. Kwabena falls to the floor, catching himself on hand and knee. His chest heaves with heavy gulps of air, and steam rises from the gunmetal gray of his X-Men uniform (lacking, of course, any X-Men insignia, as his journey here was not to be associated with the organization in any way). His skin is hot to the touch, with sweat beaded up in equal measure, though his body survives the transformation as the excess energy is eaten up by cells hungry for power. Craning his neck upward, there is a moment of disorientation as his ears hear natural sound and his eyes see the carnal world once more. When they focus upon Magneto, he struggles to regain his footing, and rises to his feet. Eyes turn to examine his body, and for once, the mutant is at a loss for words. There are footsteps, and Magneto's boots stop in front of Kwabena. There is a pause and the Master of Magnetism kneels, then places a hand on Kwabena's head, a gesture of... absolution? "Rise, Kwabena Odame," he orders the man gently. "Rise, and enter a new order of power. You have surpasssed your teachers and you have become a discipline of the universe herself. You hear her song and her voice, and it is wonderous. You have risen to new heights in power, and you should rise yourself accoringly above your peers." He stands and steps back, arms outspread. "Will you now rise, Kwabena Odame- Shift- and stand with me, as a master of his own fate." And now it comes to it. A moment of fate. He'd entertained the idea of infiltrating the Brotherhood, to be a spy for the X-Men. That is why he had accompanied Nightcrawler on his journey; one man departing from the team, another, seeking to continue in its aide. Only now, the temptation comes at him with ferocity. There is temptation to tell Magneto what he has done. There is temptation to withhold. Bounced between loyalty and greed, he finds himself at odds between two very different, and unequally appealing worlds. It is a finale truth that no one thing is truly final. "I always have been," he answers earnestly. "I have always made... my own choices. But dere is a greatah purpose for me. I undahstand it now bettah dan I have before." And yet, the tragedy lies in the fact that Kwabena Odame still understands not a damn thing. Magneto nods as if in perfect understanding, taking a few steps and then dropping his rawboned palms onto Shift's shoulders. "You have a choice to make, my friend," he says softly. His compellingly blue eyes meet the nearly black gaze of the Ghanian mutant's. His words pierce the heart- it's as if those pale eyes can see right into Shift's soul. "You can continue on the path you were on, or you can embrace a new destiny- one where you are the sole master of your future." He grips Shift's shoulders, hard. "There is a place for you among us, if you so wish. If not... you may return to your old life, with no obligation to me or mine. But if you choose to stay, you can become part of something so much greater- as greater a purpose to your old as your old gifts are to your new." He squeezes Shift's shoulders, then turns and walks away, looking out the window. "Take the evening, and consider my offer. You will be able to find me when you have made your choice." Standing to a fuller height, Shift listens closely to the words that pierce his tempted soul. There are many things he could say, and an equal measure of things he should not say. What he needs now... is a friend. Someone he trusts. His trust does not come easy. "Thank you," he offers in quiet respite. A thank you for many things... for the opportunity to think, to make a choice, for opening his eyes to something far beyond what he could have ever imagined. Looking upward toward the opening he made, Kwabena closes his eyes. His body turns to black smoke, and curls upon the floor beneath him, before vaulting up and through the opening, where it soars off into the evening sky. Category:Log